I'm Still Fighting (for Peace)
by lostinanotherworld24
Summary: All it took was one news story, and his whole world got upended. In which the past comes back with a vengeance, relationships are tested, and secrets revealed. Contains themes of implied/referenced sexual assault, nothing graphic
1. Chapter 1

A/N: **Warning- this story does contain implied/referenced sexual assault as a major theme. If this bothers you, do not continue reading. **The sexual assault is never explicitly described, but enough hints are given to paint somewhat of a picture.

Thank you for reading, and do not forget to drop a review and let me know your thoughts!

title taken from "elastic heart" by sia

Clay ducks as a french fry soars towards him, narrowly avoiding plunking him in the cheek. He grabs it and throws it back, smacks Sonny in the nose with it. The third trip of the fry is halted by Jason's hand.

"Keep it up, and y'all will be eating MREs for two weeks," Jason threatens. Sonny and Clay share a look of mutual disgust, and silently make peace; MREs are the actual worst. For a little bit, the only thing that can be heard is the sound of forks and spoons scraping against bowls and plates.

The entire team is eating at a restaurant, having taken a well-deserved break from training to grab a meal. They're together, they're safe, and they're all relatively healthy, he couldn't ask for anything more. A swell of gratitude rises within him; he of course deals with it by shoving more food in his mouth. Clay's busy crunching down on a pickle when he catches sight of the TV shoved into a high corner, blocked from the rest of the team by an inconvenient support beam. A red banner across the bottom proclaims "Breaking News" followed by a string of text.

_Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy, Marcus Roberts, accused of sexual assault...NCIS announces an investigation to follow_

This is overlaid on top of clips of the man himself being led out of his office in handcuffs, head ducked down and away from the camera. The few glimpses of his face the camera catches show a steely stoicism, an expression that both offers and reveals nothing. Clay wants to throw up.

Abruptly he stands, shoves away from the table. Mutters an excuse and practically sprints for the bathroom, dry-heaving violently once he's locked in a stall. He can still feel the ghost of hands sliding along his thighs, the murmur of a voice instructing him to _lay back_. Says _you know you like it; I know too, knew from the minute I saw you._

_Stop_, he tells himself. _You're not an 18-year kid anymore, he can't hurt you. There's no reason to even think that they'd connect you to him. You're okay, just breathe._

He forces himself to take deep breaths, to slow his racing heart. Later he'll freak out about all the implications of this, worry about the ramifications of his dirtiest secret getting out. Right now he has to pretend to be okay because they especially can never know what his past holds.

He'd _die_ if they ever found out.

Just the thought of them knowing threatens panic again, and it takes another couple of minutes before that is all the way walked back. He splashed his face with cool water, takes another deep breath, and walks out again, plastering on a smile. None of them ask any questions, although they do give him searching looks. He ignores those and resumes eating.

It'll do for now.

XXXX

He hasn't felt this uneasy around people since he was 22, and he hates every second of it. It disgusts him the way he can't look anyone in the eye, the way every glance tossed his way makes him feel like a caged animal. Every touch, no matter how brief, makes him want to rocket out of his skin, the skin that feels covered with dirt and filth. The skin that might never be cleansed of the sins committed against it, no matter how hard he tries.

What's worse is he's doing a shitty job of hiding how fucked up he is. The guys have tried to figure out what the issue is, but they're coming up empty. He'd be an idiot to miss the whispers behind his back, the looks exchanged when they think he's fast asleep. But they don't understand that the words won't come out, they stick in his throat thicker than molasses. There isn't a way to describe what happened, to reveal how fucking weak he was. To explain that he laid down and took it, every time, that the bastard had to get transferred for it to stop.

They'd be ashamed of him, he knows that, and he can't handle their shame. Not when he's already drowning in humiliation as the memories flood back, as he remembers every fucking painful detail in vivid color. All the things he tried to bury within himself so that they never saw the light of day come flooding back, and he's drowning in the tide.

Xxxx

A whimper penetrates the relative darkness of the C-17, followed a second later by a higher one. Sonny glances over and sees Clay lying in his hammock, fingers clenched in the fabric of it. His face is twisted, not with pain, but with raw fear. The kind that comes when someone's forcing another to do something that they really don't want to do.

Sonny's heart clenches, because he has no clue what Clay could be dreaming about that would make him sound so bereft. None of their recent missions had been all that traumatic, with no hard shootings or difficult incidents to cope with. He wonders if this has something to do with why Clay's been acting so weird lately and is almost afraid for the answer to be yes. Experience has taught him that there are some things better left buried.

Minutes tick by, with Clay drawing in on himself tighter and tighter, a tension rod about to snap. Finally, the younger man relaxes, sinking back into the hammock with a slight smile. Sonny exhales a sigh of relief and shuts his eyes again, tries to quiet his mind.

Xxxx

Missions start to become his haven, the same way as when he was 18, 19, 20. The action forces him into space where he can't dwell on his problems, every bit of attention focused on what's right in front of him. He's doing better than ever, hitting every beat right as he shoves more and more of himself into the battlefield. His whole life's been a fight, living and dying on one war ground or another. Fitting then, that in the chaos is where anything makes sense anymore.

Xxxx

Jason's not an idiot, he knows something is wrong. Clay's different, skittish when he used to be full of brash confidence. The slightest touch unnerves him now, drawing flinches so hard Jason worries he'll fall out of his skin. He's edgier too, picking fights with the guys over the smallest things. It's the last bit that's landed them here.

Clay's sitting in the briefing room now, sent there to think about his actions after prodding at Brock so hard they nearly came to blows. Had Ray not made a timely intervention, Jason might have had to fill out a report on exactly why the most easygoing member of his unit decked the unit's pain in the ass.

Jason enters the room, halting near the door. Clay doesn't draw his gaze away from the table, stubbornly giving it a sullen look. One arm lays against the table, fingers clenched in a fist, while the other crosses over his stomach, fingers fidgeting at his T-shirt. The wall Clay has huddled himself behind is practically visible, and Jason has no clue on how to start tearing it down.

"You wanna explain what's been going on?" Jason wonders aloud, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. Clay shrugs.

"Nothin' to explain."

"Bullshit. You've been pickin' fights, isolating yourself. Something's going on, but I can't help you unless you tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong, Jason."

"Clay. Brock almost punched you in the face, something I've never seen happen in the three years he's been in the unit. Even at your worst, you don't push things that far. What gives?"

Clay lifts a shoulder.

"Sounds like a problem you should address with him."

Jason wants to scream with frustration. Clay's never shoved away from them this hard, worked this much to keep them out. Even when he was a rookie the walls weren't this thick. Something has changed in the past few weeks, and Jason has always hated being in the dark.

"I'm addressing it with _you_, Petty Officer Spenser. Answer me: what is going on?"

"Absolutely nothing, Master Chief Hayes."

He crosses the room then, sits in a chair across from Clay.

"Clay. Look at me."

Reluctantly, the younger man obeys, dragging his eyes up slowly to meet Jason's.

"If you keep this up, there's a possibility you could face a suspension. You get that? You are hurting over something, and you're taking it out on the members of this unit, which could affect the unit in seriously negative ways. I want to help you, but you gotta open up about whatever's going on inside. Talk to me. What is the problem?"

"Nothing!" Clay snaps, startling Jason. The younger man shoves himself up violently. "Everything's fine! I'm fine! Just leave it alone Jason!"

Without waiting for another word, Clay turns and leaves the room, letting the door slam behind him. The silence in the room is deafening.

Xxxx

Three months later, another news report cycles through about the investigation. A solemn blonde anchor in red lipstick reports that investigators are still gathering witnesses, but are confident about the progress made so far. Master Chief Roberts is on leave from the Navy, representatives of all parties declining to give comments. The grapevine reports that it doesn't look good for him, the list of potential victims having reached double digits. Clay forces away the faint smell of cologne and keeps going.

Xxxx

He starts drinking again like he did when he was 19. Drinking becomes a necessity to function in daily life, instead of conformity to societal expectations or a way to have fun. It's another thing to hate himself for because he's not that kid anymore and yet he can't stop. How unfair is it, he thinks bitterly, that all it takes is a face on the news and suddenly it's 2011 again. Suddenly he's a kid desperately trying to shake off the ghost of his father, acutely aware of the weight of his last name.

The drinking helps him to lose track of things, keeps him floating just above reality. If he could care right now, he'd be sure it's just another thing that the guys are worrying about. He's slowly drifting from them, a rift that expands each day, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. This secret is too ugly for the light of day, it ruins everything it touches, but there's nothing he won't sacrifice to keep it hidden. He still manages to have his dignity, after all.

He's in some hole in the wall bar in downtown when Sonny finds him one night. He slides into the seat next to him and orders a whiskey on the rocks, not speaking until the bartender has slid a glass across to him. Sips from it, and gives Clay a long, searching glance.

"Kid, what's got you so messed up?"

"I ain't saying nothing," Clay mutters, glass lifted to his mouth.

Sonny nods slowly and takes another drink. Somehow, the silence spurs Clay to talk. Or maybe it's the alcohol.

"It's just something I gotta work through on my own."

"But you're not working through it. You're hiding from it. And that's no way to live Clay. Eventually, you're gonna hide so much that you'll get lost, and you'll never find yourself again. At least not the Clay that I know."

"Who said I wasn't already lost?"

It's unusually maudlin for him, a snippet of all the things he thinks about but never says. His skin starts to itch with how exposed he feels suddenly. Before Sonny can react he shakes his head and lays down some money, grabs his jacket and leaves. Sonny's gaze burns like a brand all the way to his car.

Xxxx

Soft mud squishes beneath Sonny's feet as he picks his way carefully through the graveyard. He passes through endless rows of white tombstones, a shiver snaking down his spine. This is nowhere near his first visit to Arlington, and yet the enormity of it never fails to stun him. Here, he can feel the lives unlived, the weight of the sacrifices made. The dedication of those buried here is visceral, and he's reminded of why he entered the Navy in the first place.

Finally, he finds it and stops, shoving his hands in his pocket.

_Brian Armstrong _

_1988-2017 _

_Beloved son and friend _

"_If he burns brightly before he dies, his brightness shines for all time." -Unknown _

"I know we ain't never met, but figured I'd come here anyway. You see, I'm worried about Clay, and I figured you'd understand, maybe better than anyone. He ain't right, ain't been right for some time. Something's wrong, and he won't tell anybody what. Thinks we ain't notice, but there really ain't much we miss with him."

Sonny Quinn, as a rule, does not deal with emotional stuff. This is more Ray's area of expertise, but Jason gave the responsibility of the kid to him, which means it's partially his job to figure out what exactly is the matter. The gravity of what he's saying overtakes him, his anxiety over Clay hitting like a punch, and he has to stop and take a breath. He sinks to the ground, heedless of the mud.

"But I bet you know all the secrets, don't you? You know where the bodies are buried. If only you could talk," he murmurs. "What is that boy hiding?"

The grave keeps its silence.

Xxxx

Trent glances over at Clay in his hammock, studying the younger man critically. Clay is sleeping awkwardly, his bandaged arm and side making it hard to get comfortable. A fire had started unexpectedly on their last mission, exploding behind Clay as he was rounding a corner, resulting in a scorched left side and arm. Pain meds had been administered a little while ago, and Trent hopes that means Clay can actually get some rest.

An hour after finally falling asleep, Clay starts to twitch and whimper, fingers clenched in the fabric of his hammock. Trent doesn't say anything for a minute, hoping Clay will be able to calm himself down, but it soon becomes apparent that's not a realistic scenario. Clay gets more distressed the more time passes until it becomes torture for Trent to lay there and listen to him.

Exhaustedly, Trent shoves himself up and shuffles over to Clay. He lays a hand on his shoulder with the intent of shaking him awake but is instead hit with a kick to the chest. Stunned, he stumbles and falls backward. Clay follows him and kicks at him two more times, before kneeling over him and grabbing one of Trent's arms awkwardly.

"Don't think I won' hesitate to fuckin' kill you right 'ere, and fuck my career," Clay mumbles.

The guys had been peripherally aware of Clay's nightmare, but as most of them had also been on their way to dreamland, none of them had thought to interrupt it. The sudden attack and Clay's words spur them to awareness; they all ease themselves up from their hammocks. No one wants to risk startling Clay and get attacked themselves.

"Clay? Buddy, what's going on?" Jason asks, deliberately keeping his voice casual.

"Tryin' to hur' me 'gain, 'nd I won't let him," Clay slurs.

"Well we're here now, so no one can hurt you. Did you think you could let him go?"

A moment passes in silence while Clay seemingly thinks this over. He nods and shoves himself up, stumbling back to his hammock. He collapses into it, soft snores drifting from his direction shortly thereafter. The team exchanges wide-eyed looks.

"What in the fuck was that?" Brock wonders aloud as Trent gets up. Pain pulses through his sternum right where Clay kicked, and he rubs the area with his left hand.

"You good Trent?" Jason asks him. Trent nods affirmatively and sits back down.

"I just put a hand on his shoulder to wake him from a nightmare, and the next thing I know he's got me face down and is threatening to kill me."

"Could it be he was talking to Ash?" Ray glances around them.

"It's possible. He did say fuck his career, which means that whatever he was dreaming about happened after he entered the military," Jason says.

"But what was bad enough for him to threaten to kill someone?" Trent interjects.

No one has the answer to that.

Xxxx

They're all exhausted. A month of nearly non-stop missions leaves them all worn-out, the lack of quality sleep, bad nutrition, and constant travel taking it out of them faster than the fight. Finally, they're off rotation and are in the cages packing to go home. Not many words are exchanged, everyone shoving clothes into duffel bags and backpacks, more than ready to sleep in their beds.

A sudden commotion from outside the door alerts them to an issue and draws their attention to the fact that Clay is not in the cages with them. A sudden sense of dread hits Jason, and he quickly strides over to the door, yanking it open. That means he gets an eyeful of Clay swinging at someone, fist slamming into the wall instead, and getting tackled around the waist and thrown to the ground for his troubles.

Ray, Sonny, and Brock rush forward, working in tandem to get the fight broken up. Ray and Sonny grab Clay, practically dragging him into the cages, while Brock ensures homeboy won't try to get another shot in. Jason shuts the door firmly once Brock's inside, and locks it, whirling around to face Clay.

A bruise is blooming on the younger man's pale cheek, eye swelling slightly. Jason crosses his arm.

"What the fuck Clay?!" He inquires incredulously. The younger man spares him a glance before he starts to pack hurriedly.

"Guy was talking shit. I did something about it."

"That's the kind of thing that could get you kicked out of this unit. Do you get that?"

"As if I give a fuck," Clay sneers, swinging his bag up onto his shoulder and walking out, leaving stunned teammates in his wake. Everyone's shock-wide eyes follow him to the door.

"It's time. We gotta sit him down," Trent glances at Ray and Jason. They nod affirmatively.

It's been going on for too long; now they're taking control.

Xxxx

There's really no good way to approach Clay to talk about things. They know that he'll deflect until he absolutely runs out of ways to explain things, and then he'll just shut down. It's a discussion they're not looking forward to, but Clay is too important for them to sweep things under the rug.

By mutual decision, they corner him one day in the cages, with Trent and Brock standing sentry at both entries to ensure he can't escape. Sonny, Ray, and Jason form a half-circle around the doorway to his cage and wait for him to notice. It takes him half a beat, his face paling once he sees their crossed arms and serious expressions. Whatever's wrong has been going on for too long, and it will end now.

"Clay. We have tried to give you your space, tried to give you room to open up about whatever's going on, but that's clearly not gonna cut it. Now, tell us. What is wrong with you? What happened before that's bothering you so badly?" Jason leans forward slightly.

"Is this an intervention?" Clay wonders. "Wow. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Answer the question."

"It's none of your business," Clay shakes his head and refuses to meet their gaze.

"Kid. Hiding from us, drinking to escape. That's not how to deal with your problems. Ya need to talk to us," Sonny speaks up.

"You wouldn't understand, okay?!" Clay shouts suddenly. "You weren't there, so you don't know. There's nothing to talk about, alright? There's nothing to discuss. What happened, happened, but that's all in the past now, and talking is just gonna make things worse. Leave it alone."

"We're not gonna do that kid, not when whatever you're holding inside is hurting you. We wouldn't allow anyone to hurt you, and we won't let you hurt yourself. Just talk to us."

"There's nothing to talk about!"

"Clay!" Jason shouts in a tone sharp enough to make anyone still. "_Talk to us_!"

It seems as though the world stills for a moment, all the guys holding their breath instinctually. Either Clay finally breaks, and tells them everything, or he shuts them out forever. There'll be no turning back, no way to undo the past. Their bonds are either strengthened or broken at this moment, and it's all dependent on his next action.

He doesn't just break, he _shatters_. It's been too many years of keeping this hidden, of pretending to be okay when he's not. Too many years of nightmares, of waking up scared because he can still feel the faint burn of a beard scraping against his cheek. If he'll ever say what happened, it will be now, or it might stay hidden forever.

No one's expecting him to start crying.

Tears pour forth, cascading down his cheeks rapidly. He sinks to the ground sobbing, leaning forward with the force of it. For a moment they all freeze, before moving forward to comfort their hurt brother. Sonny enters the cage first, and pulls Clay in, shushing him softly. Ray lays a hand on the younger man's shoulder, while Jason simply watches. Trent and Brock draw in closer from both doorways, coming to stand next to Jason.

For a long while, the room is filled with the sound of Clay's weeping and soft, murmured reassurances. At last, the tears subside, and then the words start to pour forth, all the secrets he's been keeping locked away rushing out.

"I was 18, newly enlisted. Ash had just been PNG'd, and the other guys weren't making it easy on me. I hadn't met Brian yet, so I was pretty much alone. My grandparents had already died by that point," Clay begins, staring at some distant spot. "He came around to do inspections of our unit, and...and I guess he liked me. It wasn't long after we met that it...happened for the first time. He told me that I was in _his_ navy, that I had to pay my dues. That if I didn't cooperate, he'd make sure it got out that I was spilling secrets to Ash, and my career as a naval officer would be over before it could even really start. And I believed him...so I laid down and took it."

A thick silence falls over the room for a moment while the guys process all they've been told. Clay was repeatedly sexually assaulted by a superior, kept silent by fear and intimidation. Sonny pictures himself at 18, imagines being put into that situation, and a calm rage like he's never felt before bubbles up and over. For the first time in his life, he knows he will commit murder, and he won't feel an ounce of guilt over it.

Jason feels nausea swell within him, crawling up his throat thickly. It's a struggle to retain his lunch, but he does, because Clay needs someone to be strong for him right now. Later will Jason take the time to really absorb everything, allow himself to feel horrified and disgusted and everything else. But not now.

"Who?" Sonny asks. The entire room looks at him, before looking at Clay. "Who did this to you?"

"Master Chief Petty Officer Roberts," Clay whispers.

"The one being investigated right now?" Ray asks. Clay takes a moment to look at him and nods, allows his head to drop down again.

"He's not gonna live long enough to see trial," Sonny promises, with Trent and Brock nodding in agreement. "Cause I'm gonna kill the sumbitch."

They're all intimately familiar with Sonny's tone, knows that he will complete his self-appointed mission or die trying. In practical terms, however, Bravo cannot very well sanction murder and continue to be a Tier One team. Even if that same bloodlust is rushing through their veins as well, fingers itching to smash and tear and render until an injustice has been righted.

"He's not worth you throwing your life away Sonny," Clay speaks up, voice thick with tears. "Trust me, he's not."

"He _hurt _you, Clay!"

"I know, I was there," the younger man humorlessly laughs. "No, I want him to go to trial. I want to take the stand. I want to testify, and I want him to know what it feels like when your fate is in someone else's hand. And then, I want to heal. I want to get better, and I want to _live_."

For a second, they study him, before triumphant smiles cross their faces. A spark has been lit within him, reignited by the acceptance of his brothers. They're not ashamed of his weakness, they're proud of his resolve. Ray and Sonny grip each of his arms, help him to get off the ground he's been lying on for too long. Together, they walk out of the cages, into a new future, bright with the relief that comes with being unburdened. Finally, he is free, chains and shackles unbound.

Xxxx

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Spenser. Please state your name, branch of service, rank, and current assignment for the record," the prosecutor says, starting her tape recorder. Clay takes a deep breath.

"My name is Clay Spenser. I am a Navy SEAL, currently assigned to Bravo Unit as Bravo Six, and am a First Class Special Petty Officer/Warfare Operator."

"Please state why you are here today."

"I am here because I was forced to engage in a sexual relationship with Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy, Marcus Roberts, for a period lasting from 2010-2012."

She nods and scribbles something down on a notepad. Her expression is kind and yet solemn, empathetic but serious.

"Can you please describe how you came to be in the relationship?"

On and on the questions go, every detail yanked from the recesses of his mind. His story is questioned at length, prodded for inconsistencies from different angles until the woman is sure it will stand up to any cross-examination. He feels like a damp dishrag, wrung out continually until there's nothing left.

"Can you please explain why it took so long for you to come forward with your story?"

"It took so long because I was afraid. I blamed myself and assumed others would do so as well. I believed that my compliance, forced as it was, made me responsible, made me weak. I refuse to believe that any longer, and refuse to let him go free without answering for his crimes."

The woman smiles then, and reaches into a bag, pulls out a tape and another notepad. She lays the items on the table and folded her hands.

"A few years ago, a man named Brian Armstrong came to visit me, to file a formal complaint against Master Chief Roberts on the grounds of sexual assault. He submitted to an interview, the same one you just endured, in hopes that this man could be brought to justice. Unfortunately, the original victim was unwilling to file a complaint, which meant we did not have enough evidence to prosecute. However, 's good deed was not wasted, as we retained his original testimony; it backs up everything you have told us today. Based on the joint testimony, in addition to other factors, we believe we have a very good chance of getting a conviction."

Tears swell in his eyes, sliding down his cheeks before he can even begin to stop them. At that moment, he's acutely aware of Brian's loss and misses him in the very core of his soul. Brian was truly his brother until the end, and the unspeakable kindness of this is almost more than he can bear.

It will be Brian's inherent strength and the steeliness of his brothers that will carry him through this, he realizes.

Xxxx

The trial is painfully long, each second dragging on like an eternity. Bravo stands in the back of the courtroom, shoulder to shoulder, united in their cause of supporting their brother. It is their eyes he finds when the words are too painful, their steady resolve he pulls from when his strength fails.

"Why are you here today, Petty Officer Spenser?" The defense attorney asks, high heels clicking as she wanders toward the witness stand. "Is it for fame or glory? So you can write a book like your father?"

He takes a breath, finds Jason's eyes. Defiantly, he lifts his chin and looks her square in the eye.

"No, ma'am. I am here not for the man you see before you, but for the 18-year-old told he has to lay down, or his future will be over before it can even begin. I'm here for the 19-year-old who drinks too much at night just so the memories can't torment him anymore. I'm here for the 20-year-old who has to scrub himself raw to feel clean again. I'm here because I'm tired of the fear, of the lies, and the guilt. I'm here because the code of silence needs to be broken because no one should have to live as I have for the past eight years. I'm here because the hurt did not start with me, but it _will _end with me."

The prosecutor's face remains a mask of calm seriousness, but he doesn't think he imagines the glint of pride in her eyes.

Xxxx

"Here, here," Jason raises his glass, clinks it against the others. The guys murmur sounds of agreement, and throw their glasses back, shivering a little as the whiskey burns through them.

"It's always a good day when justice prevails," Ray inserts, grinning widely.

"Convicted on all charges, and likely to get a hefty sentence. Prosecutor says she wants me to make a statement at his sentencing, thinks a victim impact statement will help the judge to not go easy on him," Clay reports.

"We're so damn proud of you kiddo, all of us. You did great up there," Jason rubs at the younger man's shoulder. Clay shoots him a grin and nods.

"Thank you guys, for sticking by me through everything. When I was lost, you found me, and when I was at my lowest, you came and got me. When I could not walk, you carried me, and I couldn't be more grateful. Just, thank you," Clay says. Everyone's eyes got a little watery in the candlelight, each reaching out to clap him on the shoulder.

The road to here wasn't easy, full of dark patches, wrong turns, and pain. But they survived; they made it here, and they did it _together_, which is what really matters.

Better than brothers, until the end of time.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This is a bonus chapter, so take it as you will! Same content warnings apply as the first chapter. Thank you for reading, and don't forget to drop a review!

He knows that Clay said that bastard wasn't worth it. That Sonny shouldn't throw his life away. Going through with this is career suicide, he'll spend the rest of his life in a tiny cell surrounded by the scum of society. Every bit of hard work it took to be a tier-one operator will be wasted, the years of his life rendered meaningless. His actions will dishonor the uniform more than whiskey and strippers ever could.

And yet, none of that matters.

None of that makes any bit of difference when he pictures Clay, eighteen years old and alone. Kid can look 12 even though he's nearly 30, which means he must've looked damn near five back then. He pictures those ocean eyes, empty and lifeless, staring at a bland ceiling and wishing for it to be over. The fear of Clay's face during his nightmares, the terror he felt inside but was never allowed to express.

Those thoughts make Sonny's blood boil. No one fucks with what Sonny Quinn considers his and gets away with it. And his brothers are most definitely his. They are the air in his lungs, the reasons he gets out of bed in the morning. Without them, he would be dead many times over, and that's a debt he can never repay.

He is the knuckle-dragger, the one that does the heavy lifting. In principle, it's no different than when he beat the shit out of his sister's ex for putting hands on her. This is just part and parcel of his responsibilities.

No one knows of his plans, he's extremely careful to ensure that. He keeps his rage to himself, stowing it away during missions, and not stepping a toe out of line. Days off and nearly all of his free time become devoted to planning sessions, each detail mapped out to insure no failures. The mission must succeed, at all costs.

He familiarizes himself with back-routes to and from the courthouse; takes side roads to neighboring cities to purchase the supplies needed. After the deed is done, the police will start canvassing locally and then work outwards, which will give him some time to get his affairs in order. He does nothing to make himself noticeable, does not buy supplies in bulk or from the same place twice. Always pays in cash, and never lets the cashier or the cameras get a good look at him. There's no way it won't work, he thinks to himself.

Finally, he has it all ready. He'll dress in a bulletproof vest and clothes much outside his norm, with some extra padding around the middle to disguise his true figure. The bastard has a hearing at a local courthouse, with construction forcing his convoy to take a deserted side road. Sonny will perform a vehicle interdiction there, end the bastard's life(not as painful as he'd like), and then leave before anyone has a chance to do anything. Quick, easy, and practically foolproof.

He's got everything laid out on his dining room table, an hour remaining until it's mission go-time. A knock sounds at his front door and he internally groans, hoping his landlord hasn't decided _now_ is the time to come bother him. The last people he's expecting to see are Jason and Ray, arms crossed and wearing menacing expressions

"Jay and Ray! What brings you two here?" He asks, trying not to nervously laugh. He can't afford to give the fucking game away and let all his hard work go to waste. As long as he can keep them out of his apartment, everything should be fine.

"Just taking a stroll through the neighborhood, thought we'd stop by. You planning on going anywhere?" Ray asks with a glint in his eyes that says he already knows the truth.

Sonny won't be persuaded from his task and won't give up until he has definitive proof they know something's up, their sudden presence not enough to break him. He sets his chin and continues as if nothing's wrong.

"No, nowhere in particular."

"Cool. Mind if we come in?" Jason asks and then shoves past him before Sonny can respond.

He lets his head droop slightly as they walk towards his table, every bit of his secret exposed for them to see. The road maps that trace routes for the convoy, alternate ones included; the clothes and extra padding; the makeup he planned to use to distort his facial features; the goddamn weapon.

"You know, it's funny Jace. Sonny said he wasn't planning on going anywhere, and yet everything on his table seems to suggest the opposite. Isn't that funny?" Ray asks. Sonny leans against his now-closed front door and studies the ground.

"It is funny Ray. I mean we got road maps, clothes, a weapon. Everything needed for a nice little vacation. Where you going, Sonny-boy?" Jason asks.

"Oh, I think I might know," Ray asks, bending forward to study one of the maps. "Hmm, he has routes marked out to a local courthouse. Which is strange, considering Sonny hasn't been in trouble with the law in quite some time. So why would he have routes mapped out to a courthouse?"

Ray straightens, and glances at Jason, before fixing his eyes on Sonny. He's very definitely Senior Chief Perry now, and Sonny has never wanted to run for his life more. Sprinting hills with 20 pounds of gear on would be a more pleasurable experience.

"Could it be, Ray Perry, that a certain Master Chief of the Navy is being arraigned now, and one would need to know the routes to and from the courthouse if they wanted to perform a _vehicle interdiction_?" Jason asks, coming to stand beside Ray.

"But then you'd need to ask yourself: why would someone _want_ to perform a vehicle interdiction? And then you'd need to remember that his Master and Senior Chief know Chief Petty Officer Sonny Quinn better than he does sometimes, and they knew to take him seriously when he said he'd commit murder," Ray's voice has dropped from falsely innocent to deadly serious. Sonny swallows hard and clears his throat.

"How-how'd you figure it out?" He asks, voice barely higher than a whisper.

"We put a tracker on your truck Sonny, weeks ago. Had it set to alert us when you traveled out of town, cause you knew better than to go to any local stores. Started following you, watched every purchase. Even down to the gun, you bought off that fuckin' dope dealer in the back alley three days ago," Jason reveals.

Sonny couldn't feel more naked if he stripped right then and there. His heart starts to race, because they have him dead-to-rights on conspiracy to commit murder and illegal purchase of a weapon, and could easily turn him in and have him finished. Prison had always been an eventuality in his mind, but he thought he'd at least have the satisfaction of ending the bastard's life first. Of getting justice for his best friend.

"You gonna turn me in?" He asks.

Ray and Jason exchange a look.

"No. That's not why we came. We came because we're never gonna sit back and watch you ruin your own life. We didn't let Clay ruin his, we'd never in a million years do that to you," Ray assures him softly.

"What Clay went through, it makes anyone's blood boil. To think that someone hurt one of our brothers like that, and not be able to seek justice through cracking skulls, that enrages all of us. But brother, this isn't the way. Killing him won't stop Clay's nightmares, won't make Clay feel safe. Imagine how he'd feel if you lost everything you worked so hard for, because of him? That wouldn't bring him peace, it would only make things worse," Jason informs him.

Sonny leans his head back, feels himself relax against the door. There's a logic in their words that even he can't deny. _This is why I ain't in charge_, he thinks wryly.

"Don't tell Clay, please. He's dealin' with enough," Sonny pleads, voice steadier than he feels. These are the only people he'll ever be this weak in front, the only people who he can trust to pick him up when he falls. All his insides have turned to jello, the kind that comes from an adrenaline high and then abrupt crash.

"This doesn't leave this room," Ray assures him.

They spend a couple of hours with him and talk through everything. No feeling is too ugly to tell them, and he lets every bit of rage, grief, and helplessness spill out. They bare their souls too, let him see the anger and horror festering within them ever since Clay first revealed what happened. Hearing that he's not alone, that they bear the burden of caring too, does wonders. By the end, he feels empty, but in a way that means there's room to rebuild.

They will get better, all of them. Together they'll work through the fallout of the coming days, weeks, and months, ensuring that no man is left behind. Everything will be okay; they won't rest until it is.

These are the things he thinks of as he files into the courtroom behind Ray, with Trent on his six.

They've got each other's backs, until the end of time.


End file.
